


Five Habits Of Mickey Mundy That Drive Tavish Degroot Up The Fucking Wall (And The One That Keeps Him Grounded)

by RocksCanFly



Series: RocksCanFly's As-Of-Yet-Un-Named Sniper/Demo Series [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Humor, Just a wee bit, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Relationship(s), Shower Sex, Sniper is fucking weird, Touch-Starved, a little bit of angst, also, because the childhoods of mercenaries are dicsussed and we all know how that goes, cw: Australians, not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have our quirks, but even by Team Fortress standards Sniper is fucking *weird*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Habits Of Mickey Mundy That Drive Tavish Degroot Up The Fucking Wall (And The One That Keeps Him Grounded)

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the ongoing un-named Sniper/Demo series. This takes place in the same universe as "Patience is Not a Virtue". Thanks again to my wonderful beta-reader and crewmate on the RAN SwordVan, Lightspeed. 
> 
> Go read her fics: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed

1\. Short Showers

After growing up in the middle of nowhere in a country that experiences periodic droughts, Mickey Mundy is used to conserving water. Prior to his and Tavish's relationship, Mick never stayed in the shower longer than four minutes, five if he had a lot of gunk in his hair. Tavish, who grew up in a considerably damper clime and who is used to long, relaxing showers and who has viewed shower time as one of the few sacred moments of privacy in life since he got out of the orphanage, was at first only befuddled by this particular view of his lover. It wouldn't have gotten to be a big deal if they didn't usually end up showering together after matches, but they did. After the tenth or so time that Mick ended up jamming a bony elbow into Tavish's solar plexus in his haste to get out of the shower, Tavish got annoyed.

So annoyed, in fact, that one day he trapped Mick against the tiled wall of the shower just as the other man was getting ready to climb out. The next fifteen minutes were spent convincing Mick of the merits of long showers via pushing his annoyed boyfriend against a tiled wall and wrapping his mouth around his cock.

Tavish’s efforts won him a whole twenty-five minutes of shower time that evening. He maintains to this day that it would have gone on longer had Scout not stumbled upon them and started screaming like a ninny.

Mick would rather forget about the incident altogether. He’s had many enjoyable experiences with his cock in Tavish’s mouth, thanks, and the addition of steam (which blocked his view of Tavish during the proceedings, an inexcusable crime) and a squalling Bostonian to that particular incident make it one of the less enjoyable memories.

Even so, after that day Mick’s showers began to average out to be a little longer—about ten minutes or so, just as long as Tavish is in there with him.  

* * *

2\. His Taste in Food

While Tavish will be among the first to decry the taste of the rations they are provided by RED, he doesn’t hate them quite enough to go to the lengths Mick does to avoid eating them. Wherever it is they’re fighting that week, Mick will find some animal or another to kill and eat. Tavish will join him in this when it’s normal game- rabbits, quail, fish and the like, maybe the occasional squirrel if the rations that night have a stronger chemical aftertaste than usual.

However, he flat out refuses to touch anything that Mick catches in the desert. Brave the Degroot clan may be, but Tavish is confident that none of his ancestors would disown him for refusing to eat some of the nightmares Mick considers “food”. Said critters include: snakes, lizards, rats and other assorted rodents, small birds and, on one memorable occasion, cockroaches.

And people try to convince the Scotsman that his culture’s cuisine is disgusting.

Needless to say, Tavish refused to let the Australian’s mouth anywhere near his own for days after he first witnessed his boyfriend happily cook and devour ‘roach kebabs’. It made no difference how many times the other man tried to convince him they “just taste like shrimp with a little more crunch, ya big baby”.

The only upside of it, Tavish will admit, is that Mick is the only man he’s ever been with who’s wanted to try the haggis and blood sausage Mum sends back with him for lunch after his occasional morning off.

* * *

3\. The Trophies

"Aurrghaaa..."

"You up, darl?"

"Unfortunately, aye. What the bloody hell did we _do_ last night?"

"Went to town, got drunk--you more than me though, you were completely pissed by the time the fun started. We got in a few fights, I took a few souvenirs, and then I dragged yer arse back here to the camper."

"Sounds like a grand time. Cannae remember a thing, but it seems 'bout right for a night with just the two of us. We dinnae blow up the bar this time, right?"

"Nah, Solly’d have to be along for that. Coffee?"

“Aye, if ya please. Oi, Mick love-- wot’s this white thing hangin' in the window. Me eye ain't working proper.”

“Necklace.”

“I mean what’s it _made_ of, ye daftie.”

“Remember those bushman’s rules I mentioned to ya?”

“Aye.”

“Well then, there ya go.”

“Wait- ye don’t mean to say _\- Mickey Mundy, are those human **teeth**_?”

“Yep.”

“Tha’s jus bloody disgusting!”

“Nah, mate. ‘ts traditional, is all. Like yer heads.”

“I dinae make bloody jewelry!”

“Not my fault you’ve got weird ideas about what counts as bloke clothes, ya skirt wearer.”

“Ye’r sleepin on ye own tonight.”

“C’mon darl, if the teeth bother ya that much I’ll put them away. Don’t be like tha-“

“Ye’r sleepin on your own, and ye’ll stay on ye own, until ye can recognize a bloody _kilt_.”

* * *

4\. His Sleeping Habits

Tavish appreciates a nap just as much as the next bloke, but Mick takes the concept and runs away with it faster and farther than Scout with one of the BLU Heavy's sandwiches.

By his own admission, Mick once slept inside the corpse of a water buffalo.

That is all that needs to be said about his standard regarding what counts as a bed.

Here’s the facts: Mick will sleep anytime, anywhere. It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable the surface is or what’s going on around him. If he’s not on the job and he’s not interested in the proceedings, he will drop straight to sleep, paranoia be _damned_. An annotated list of places Tavish has found Mick passed out and snoring:

  * In the sewer tunnel at Double Cross (The mission had just finished and the Sniper had decided to take a snooze on the pile of BLU Spy corpses that had accumulated there. Pyro, Sniper’s comrade in arms in guarding the tunnel that round, was braiding intestines into Mick’s bootlaces. Thankfully the firebug objected only verbally to Tavish slinging his unconscious lover over his shoulder and heading to the showers.)
  * In the Infirmary (Tavish only barely rescued Mick from Medic, who had been anticipating getting his hands on Mick’s enlarged kidneys for a while now. He still hasn’t quite forgiven Tavish for the lost opportunity)
  * In literally _every_ conference room of _every_ base they have _ever_ fought in.
  * One of the storage containers in Turbine (Turns out the cheeky little shit had a whole hang-out set-up in there that he’d never told Tavish about. The only reason he’d even found the bloody numpty was because the man had a few beers that night and snores loud enough to wake the _dead_ when he’s had a few drinks in him.)
  * The cover on the Teufort bridge (The BLU Spy, who had taken the moment to try and get some nasty revenge on his rival for the events of the previous round, had been very surprised when he was decapitated by a longsword right as he was preparing to backstab the RED Sniper.)
  * Under the capture point at Nucleus
  * In one of the wood sheds at Sawmill
  * Standing up, wedged in the corner in every respawn room in every base (This is inevitable of course, considering that's where all of them are bound to finish the mission three times out of ten. Even Tavish had taken a bit of shut-eye in respawn once or twice after a particularly exhausting day. But he at least had the sense to lie the bloody hell _down_.)
  * In Tavish's own work shed, head nestled on-top of a bag of black powder and feet resting on a barrel of nitroglycerine.



It amazed Tavish, back in the early days of their acquaintance, that a man as bat-shit-paranoid as the Sniper could fall asleep at all anywhere but his own camper. It wasn't until his first memorable experience being the one assigned to wake the sniper that realized that, beneath that hat perpetually tilted over his face as he napped, the barmy nutter sleeps with his eyes half-cracked open.

Its one of the man's _almost_ endearingly disturbing habits that, thank the good Virgin Mary, doesn't carry over into the actual bedroom and real sleep.

* * *

 5. The Piss Jars

In defense of the piss jars, they are, tangentially, the reason Tavish and Mick ended up in this relationship in the first place.

Perhaps some more explanation is in order.

The first few weeks working for RED were... interesting, to say the least. Besides the excitement of the daily battles, the flat-out weirdness of the respawn system, and the food, the most interesting adjustment in those early days was learning to work with other mercenaries. Learning to work in a team was an easy adjustment. Demomen tended to work with other members of the clan, and Tavish had had plenty of experience working with other people in his past jobs. It was these particular mercenaries, themselves, that required adjustment.

Engie and Heavy weren't that bad, really. Engie could get a little excited about his inventions, sure, but who doesn’t get a wee bit excited over their favorite weapons? Heavy was a tad intimidating at first, still is really, but Tavish learned pretty early on that he was a decent bloke as far as Ruskies went.

Scout was an annoying little bugger from the get go, cocksure and louder than a squealing bairn. That hasn’t changed all that much, though Tavish will admit to having developed a fondness for the lad. He just wasn’t good for conversation- antics, aye, but not conversation.

Pyro, while tolerable and sorta sweet, to be truthful, gave Tavish the willies for the first few weeks. He’d treat the firebug well enough, but he didn’t go out of his way to seek their company.

Spy came off as a snob until you realized he was really just, ya know, French. After that he was just as much of a socially inept loser as any of them.

Soldier, while mad as a hatter, quickly became an excellent drinking buddy and sparring partner.

It may be best not to talk about Tavish’s early experiences with the Doc.

All in all, they were a mad pack of loonies and everyone got on well enough once they learned what and what not to do around one another (touching Heavy’s gun, going to Medic for healing small things like broken legs an’ such, talking about lasses ‘round the Scout lest ye wanted an earful of his supposed exploits).

Everyone but the Sniper.

At first Tavish let well enough alone- far be it for him to be the one to drag the perpetually cranky man out of his funk. It wasn’t his responsibility to force a grown man into social interaction like some sort of angsting teenager.

Then he started to notice the Sniper on the battlefield.

For all of his grumping whenever they were off-duty, the Australian appeared to have a fantastic, if rather dry and morbid, sense of humor when they were fighting. Whether it was a well-timed jab at one of the opposing BLU’s or a colorful insult flung at his own teammates, the Sniper’s radio chatter proved to be oddly entertaining and multi-syllabic.

A few passing comments about the Commonwealth cricket tourney and some well-timed jabs at the Brits and Tavish knew that there was a beautiful friendship waiting to blossom between the two of them, given some tender care and the liberal application of alcohol.

The only problem was that he could never get the daft numpty alone outside of battle, and he certainly had no cause to approach the man during a fight. He’d just get blown off and told to go fight at his own range and stop throwing off the other man’s aim. After rounds ended the lonely bastard usually beat a quick retreat to his camper or his room, wherever he felt like staying for the night. He didn’t spend time with the other lads, or in any common spaces at all.

Fed up and bored out of his own skull, Tavish decided to pay the Sniper a visit at his camper about three weeks into their contract. He brushed the man aside when he opened the camper door, shoving in with a comment about the last match and about how the Brits were a bunch of cheating little arse monkeys. He dropped two cases of beer down on the tin floor and turned to the other man.

“Get. Out.”

“Nae, I dinnae think I will, lad. You’ve been holing yeself up in this tin can long enough. Time for some social interaction, aye?”

“If I wanted bloody social interaction I’d hang around people.”

“I’m people!”

“You know what, mate, ya _are_. So get the fuck out of my camper, ya bleedin moron.”

“Ain’t no call for that!”

“Ain’t no call for you invading my privacy. For the last time, mate: bugger off!”

With that, Tavish sat down on Sniper’s bed and raised an imperious brow at him.

Barmy bastard threw a fookin’ piss jar at him.

Dripping and fuming, Tavish did not yell. He did not hit Sniper, though it was a close enough thing. Instead he turned around, raised his kilt, and pissed on the man’s bed.

The resulting tussle left dents in the camper that still haven’t been beaten out. Tavish is pretty sure the rangy man knocked a few of his teeth loose, and he didn’t go easy on the gangly bastard either. At the end of it they were bruised and bleeding on the dry grass, having fought their way outside. Exhausted, they rolled off one another, panting and exhilarated. Silence stretched out between them for a long while. Tavish watched the sun set on the horizon, the way it bathed the ugly scrub of the desert in brilliant reds and oranges.

Eventually Sniper went back to the camper and, unexpectedly, came back out with the beer. They set up against the camper, leaning back and looking up at the stars as they appeared in the dimming sky. Tavish stripped himself of his shirt, as much because of the mid-summer heat as the piss smell. After a moment’s hesitation Mundy did the same, and they watched the sky in companionable silence.

The next morning Sniper came in for breakfast, and the dynamic of the team changed around him to integrate him into their daily antics. Tavish maintains that that’s when their friendship–-which would become something more on a cold winter’s night years in the future, when Mick would tell Tavish, who would be trying to drink away the heartbreak of a broken friendship, that there’s at least one person on the base who’d rather die than fight him—began.

Tavish still hates the bloody piss jars though. Though his first interaction with them had softened him towards the habit somewhat for a while, it only took the first drunken night spent in one of Mick’s crow nests, when he’d mistaken an open jar for a glass of whiskey, to revive his initial disgust.

* * *

 +1. His Complete(ly Ironic) Lack of Respect for Personal Space

Annoying and occasionally batshit crazy habits aside, Tavish wouldn’t trade Mick for anyone. There are multiple reasons for this, not the least of them being that Tavish is half certain he’s in love with the loony, bug-eating, piss-jar collecting numpty. Another reason is because, despite all the bad or just plain odd habits of one Mickey Mundy, the lad has some good habits that more than offset them.

Among these habits is his ability to, inexplicably, always have a half-full pot of hot coffee at hand. This is a particularly grand habit to have in a boyfriend for anyone who gets hung-over as often as Tavish. Others among the list include his penchant for banter, his saxophone playing, and his bloody-minded determination to make a competition out of everything (a determination Tavish and half the rest of the team shared, of course. RED has won quite a few more rounds since their Sniper became social enough to bother announcing his unofficial competitions to his teammates).

But the very best of Mick’s many tendencies, in his lover’s not-at-all humble opinion, is his fondness for completely and utterly ignoring the personal space of anyone he becomes even moderately close to.

Now, you won’t find Mick just going around touching everyone- especially not back when Tavish was the only friend he’d made on the team so far. But the moment the rangy, anti-social bastard decides that he likes you despite your unfortunate condition of belonging to a group he refers to disgustedly as “people”, you can forget about keeping your personal bubble intact.

Claps on the shoulder when there was a good round, smacks to the head when he’s annoyed with someone (usually Scout), one-armed hugs, teasing punches in the arm, you name it. If you manage to get the man to like you enough to tolerate being awake in a room with you when he doesn’t have to be, the place he’ll most likely end up in said room is either with one gangly arm draped over your shoulder or his filthy boots resting in your lap.

And that’s just for _friends._

Ever since he and Tavish began the romantic portion of their relationship, Mick has been thoroughly unable to resist touching the other man if they’re together in the same room for more than five minutes.

During the frequent “strategy meetings” hosted by Soldier, Mick’s hand usually finds its way to either resting on Tavish’s shoulder or the back of his neck. It’s a proprietary gesture, usually accompanied by Mick digging his thumb into a tense muscle and massaging it soothingly. When they cook in the kitchen? It’s a hand pressed in the small of Tavish’s back or wrapped around his waist, a sharp hip bumping into his own in companionable closeness and a callused thumb stretching to rub the jut of bone above Tavish’s clothes.

If the two end up on the couch in the common room one of a few things will happen: either Mick’s legs or head will end up in Tavish’s lap or, if Mick’s the first one to sit down, Tavish will end pulled against the bushman’s side, one of the Australian’s long arms draped around his back or shoulders.

If it’s a particularly lazy day and no one else is on the couch Mick will even go so far as to manhandle them until they’re lying against one another lengthwise across the whole thing. If Tavish is on top Mick will nap with his arms wrapped loosely around his back or hands shoved up beneath the Scotsman’s shirt, rubbing absently at the warm skin above his belt-line. If Mick’s on top he’ll invariably end up with one hand buried in Tavish’s thick, curly hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as they watch whatever’s on the tellie at the time.

Sometimes in the evenings after work’s over and they’re taking some time to catch up on their reading, the two will laze around on the bed in Tavish’s room. They’ll lay side by side on their bellies, Tavish with a novel or a chemistry journal, Mick with one of his magazines. Mick’ll cross one leg over one of Tavish’s, like the sniper-spotter pairs in the military. Then he’ll lean his chin into one hand while he reads his articles on jarate or the Bangkok sex-trade or the newest rifles or what-have-you, and his other hand will bury itself in Tavish’s hair or massage his neck.

It’s a habit Mick picked up in the outback, he claims. He lived in a town so small it was more like a group of houses with a small school and a gas station/corner store, really. Most of the inhabitants lived anywhere from one to twenty miles away on a plot of far-stretching land. They didn’t have much, but they did have an abundance of two things: sheep and dingoes.

Mick would spend hours lying out in those fields, taking potshots at dingoes while he kept the sheep under guard. There were always one or two ewes who were real fond of him, usually older ones, and who would lie down next to him and nap after grazing. He developed a habit of lying there for hours in the peace and quiet, one hand on his banged up old rifle and the other buried in wool and giving scritches to an appreciative creature he found to be preferable company to most of the other people in his town, especially his schoolmates. Not surprising considering how much shit he tended to get for being skinny and hairless unlike the rest of the population. He and Tavish sometimes shared stories of the twats they had to put up with in school and of the revenge they took. Mick would get up in a tree or atop a roof and take potshots at the little jerks with a bb gun- painful but harmless. Tavish put fireworks in their knapsacks till they learned to keep their big mouths shut ‘bout the whole “black-cyclops” thing.

Mercenaries generally don’t have happy childhoods.

There was one major downside to the whole fireworks-in-Eaniaig-Ainsley’s-knapsack thing. Every kid at school who would have, maybe, have been Tavish’s friend was then either scared of him or forbidden to speak to him by their mums. It wasn’t the first or last time his pride ended up biting him in the arse, but it taught him to take insults with a wee bit more grace.

Until he found himself amongst a bunch of loony bastards as hot-tempered and enthusiastically violent as himself, that is. Now if he blew someone’s ear off they’ll just try to return the favor. None of that screaming to the headmistress shite.

Tavish’s adopted parents had been big on hugs and other forms contact. The first thing that Tavish had learned to miss at the orphanage was the nightly hugs and playful nose tweaks that his old mum and da had used to send him off to bed. Growing up after the incident and his real parent’s sudden re-entrance into his life had been… an adjustment.

He had few to no friends until secondary school and was held at arm’s length by proud parents who, while well intentioned, were a wee bit more focused on teaching him the family trade than they were on giving out hugs. Visits from the rest of the clan, all of them boisterous and significantly more prone to hugs and shoulder clasping than his Mum and Da, were few and far between because of how scattered they all were. By the time Tavish signed his contract with RED he was a wee bit, ah, “touch-starved”, is how he’s heard it put.

Thankfully with Mick he’s more likely to be batting off an intrusive hand than longing for contact. It’s gotten to the point where Tavish is more likely to notice the _lack_ of an arm around his shoulder or a hand creeping down his back to sneak a grab at his arse during mission briefs. And that’s just how the both of them like it, so everyone wins.

Except Scout, who needs to either stop watching him and Mick during briefs or learn to keep his big mouth _shut_.

Overall, the combination of Mick’s childhood spent cuddling sheep and Tavish’s childhood spent cuddling no one has resulted in Mick’s lack of personal boundaries being one of the best aspects of their relationship. While Tavish still isn’t quite sure how he feels about Mick comparing his hair to sheep’s wool, it’s a kinder description than most and seems especially complementary coming from Mick, who regards those old ewes as the highlights of an unhappy childhood, going so far as to jokingly refer to them as his “first three girlfriends”.

He’d still smacked the man the first time Mick told him about the comparison.


End file.
